


Fruits of Immortality

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France, England, and apples through the ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fruits of Immortality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suddenlyapples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suddenlyapples/gifts).



> Repost of an old fic over on my tumblr, for the birthday of a certain OAP dear to me with a terrible taste in noodles.

_**I.** _

There are probably songs about these moments. Sort of. Maybe if England were older and prettier and a _girl_ , instead of being a grubby little boy in a torn dress utterly refusing to come down from his hiding place in an apple tree. With autumn _leaves_ in his hair.

France stands at the bottom of the tree and thinks forlornly of the wrecked ribbons back in his chambers England _had_ started out wearing that morning, the younger Nation looking positively _cherubic_ with his face scrubbed red-clean and scowl missing (France had sneaked him some honey bread) for morning prayers.

And now – _this._

“You’re not sweet _at all,_ ” France laments, and sinks down in a puddle of his own garments amongst the tree roots to hate his life. There are fallen apples around him, bruised from impact with the ground – these, he pushes to the side. “What did you do with your shoes?”

“Don’t _want_ to be sweet,” says England, mutinously, up the tree, and then – “Fed them to a dragon.”

“Oh, you did _not,_ you little _beast-”_

“Did too,” says England, and tucks his muddy toes under the sorry remains of his tunic, curled up like a most peculiar bird. A squirrel, intrigued by the noise, scuttles down from one of the higher branches to join him. “They made him burp.”

_“They were new shoes!”_

“Didn’t like ‘em,” England says blithely, and ignores France _fuming_ below him to dig around in his little satchel, pulling out a bit of bread. The squirrel sniffs at it, before carefully beginning to gnaw. “Dragon did though; he said they were tasty. Were they made of cow?”

“I,” France, face upturned, promises the little _brat,_ “am going to wring your neck when I get hold of you.”

“Shan’t let you get hold of me, then,” says England, and pets his squirrel.

“You’ll have to come down from the tree sometime!”

“Not for a long time,” England says, and sounds so utterly sure of the fact. France loathes him _utterly,_ even when the complacent smile on England’s face fades to something more thoughtful, the younger Nation laying one of his mucky hands on the tree’s bark. “Gods live in apple trees.”

_“Heathen,_ ” France huffs at him, startling England out of his dreaminess.

England scowls at him, and drops an apple on France’s head.

 

 

 

 

The apples sit on France’s bed later, three of them, ripe and red as any temptation. They’ve been shined on his blankets because said blankets look like they’re in need of cleaning, but. They’re _there,_ which is interesting enough.

Pleased at the offering, France eats one, then wraps the other two up to have another day – and when the door to France’s chambers is nudged open much later that night, and France is woken from his sleep by his servant’s grumbled _it’s you again_ and a very small and familiar _thing_ slipping into his room and burrowing up beneath his blankets to curl into the hollow of France’s side –

When that happens, because it had been a surprisingly _good_ apple (and France is far too used to the situation), he lets his arm curl around the smaller body at his side, keeping the other close and warm.

In the dark, England _hmphs,_ but invariably falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

_\- Must you always cause so much trouble?_

_\- If you weren’t so_ stupid, _it wouldn’t trouble you._

_\- Maybe I should just be rid of you –_

_\- You_ can’t! _I will live forever and ever and_ ever -

 

 

 

 

_**II.** _

“Engwand,” says America, insistently tugging at England’s britches with his small hands, “Engwand, _up._ ”

And because England is England and America somehow has the capability of turning a rude, vicious little upstart into a doting mother-hen, England pauses in cutting up fruit, bending down to scoop his little colony up into the crook of his arm. Who would have thought it?

_“Engwand!”_ America squeals happily, and limpets himself around his guardian’s neck – until England carefully prises his hands away, choking, and distracts America with a slice of apple.

France, sitting at the nearby kitchen table and watching the display, rolls his eyes. “Charming.”

America, sitting thoughtfully gumming his apple-slice whilst England (now one-handed) returns to cutting another apple on the board in front of him, blinks big blue eyes at their guest. England plucks out the seeds of the fruit before him – seven, uneven; there is misfortune to come. “…Engwand’s charming.”

“From the mouths of babes,” England says, and smirks at France as he kisses America’s forehead. America is more than happy with the attention, _burr_ ing as he rubs his cheek against England’s shirt, finally deciding to eat his bit of apple and then reach out needy hands for more.

“…You spoil him,” France chides, softly, softly, as England just gives up and feeds America the rest of the apple, slice by slice, America’s fingers clutching firmly onto England’s hand. France tries to think of the child’s brother in the north, little New France, doing the same, being so demanding, and cannot.

England just shrugs at him, absently wiping apple juice off his fingers on the back of America’s clean(er) smock as he comes to take a seat opposite France. Their knees bump under the table – France goes to hook his ankle around the other’s leg, make England flush, but – no. England does not look at him, and moves his foot. “He thrives because of it,” (France would not use the term ‘ _thrive’_ for America, who is busy stuffing his cheeks as full as a rodent’s,) “which is more than can be said for some of the charges under _your_ care.”

France watches him carefully; England still has his childhood in his face, the soft beside the eternally-emerging sharp. “A little adversity can be considered character-building.”

“God knows we had enough of it to give some credit to that,” says England, and, because he is a _polite_ host, does not say _mutually-provided_ aloud, though the dry message lingers clear as day in his eyes, “but don’t you think it adverse enough, to be raised at the far-end of civilisation as it is? The weather is more often cruel than kind, and the natives are -” a pause, England glancing down in time to see America looking up at him attentively. England coughs, and adjusts the little boy in his grip. “They can be less than _agreeable_ ,” he says, and America returns his head to England’s chest again.

France just snorts. “Whether this is the far-end of civilisation or not – your little _cherub_ there can toss a small buffalo without breaking a sweat. He hardly needs a _nanny._ ”

England scowls at him. “I’m hardly going to leave him to fend for himself when _you’re_ hanging around.”

“So it’s _me_ you’re supervising?” France takes great pleasure in watching the colour rise in his host’s fair cheeks, blotchy red that America seems fascinated by. Ignoring the little hand curiously patting his face, England _glares._ Lovely. “I’m flattered.”

England sets America down. The boy fusses, of course, displeased at being deprived of his guardian’s warmth, all clinging hands and sulking _dun wannas._ His pout is a reminder of centuries long lost – if France did not know any better, in that instant he would _swear_ there is some sort of true blood-relation between the young one and England. But…their kind does not breed.

It is better that way.

Whilst England is telling a pouting America to go play in his room, France leans over and offers his own arms to the boy. America, stubborn pet lip out, promptly abandons reasoning with England and wanders over so he can be lifted up onto France’s lap, immediately beginning to fiddle with the rather lovely mother-of-pearl buttons on France’s waistcoat.

“Now you may supervise both of us,” France says, very grandly. America pulls one of the buttons off of the waistcoat, and, as France winces, England smirks.

 

 

 

 

Night pads in like a dog tired after a long day lying in the sun, swishes its tail behind France and ushers him down from the guest room so _graciously_ provided to him (after France had made it quite plain he had no intentions of leaving that day) in England and America’s quaint home. America, the dear (destructive) child, is safely abed, but candlelight still gleams gold downstairs, a long stretch of light peering out from a crack in England’s study door.

England sleeps like a child, caught by slumber unawares, head tucked into the crook of his arm on his study desk. His pillow appears to be paperwork, a strewn mess of sheets – France glances at it curiously as he leans against the desk, looks down at his rival where England’s face is turned towards the light. Such a nuisance and yet still such a boy… England’s cheek is soft against France’s fingertips, firm where it yields to his jaw –

“Do you even shave yet?” France asks conversationally, and moves his fingers just in time to keep them from being snapped at by his little English snake’s teeth. He has known England long enough to know when the other’s sleep is feigned – and England glares up at him for the fact, drowsy, very grumpy, very green.

Bodily harm shall have to await another time.

“Haven’t you vexed me enough for one day?” England sits up, scrubs his arm against his eyes – and misses his cheek entirely, marked by the black ink it had been pressed against. (France casually doesn’t mention it.) “You _have_ a room for the night; couldn’t you do the decent thing for once and go and hang yourself in it?”

“Sleep was being an elusive mistress.” The desk is quite comfortable; France sits on it more decidedly and listens to England _hmph,_ the other nation moving his papers to avoid having them (further) squashed. He knocks a bowl of fruit to the side as he does so – more apples, stacked up so strangely some must have been removed from the original pile, England no doubt eating whilst he worked. “I thought you preferred strawberries?”

England looks blank at the change in topic, but France nods his head to the bowl and the other’s confusion clears. “…I like apples well enough, and the orchards nearby had a good crop this year.”

France leans over and snares one of the fruits for himself – his hair, loose for bed, swings forward about his face, and through its gold strands he can see England watching him, as he has always done throughout the long, long years. For the ages to come, at least England knows who to keep his eyes upon.

And yet –

“For the fairest,” France murmurs, leans in very close so England must lean back in his seat, and holds the apple’s shine before England’s uplifted face.

(They have beauty, wisdom and growing power in both of them yet.)

England scowls, knocking France’s hand – and the apple in it – to the side. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“No,” France corrects him, smiles, “I am being Paris, for the name is quite well-suited -”

This time, when England smacks at France’s hand, the apple ends up on the floor.

France pouts after it. “…You never _could_ take a compliment.”

 

 

 

 

_\- There were wars started over words as silly as yours._

_\- And we will, no doubt, be at war with each other over sillier words soon enough. But for now –_

 

 

 

 

_**III.** _

The tribal war cry that erupts within the house when France rings England’s doorbell is quite daunting. _Sealand_ opening the door is even more so; bundled up against the snow lying on the ground the boy still manages to beam as bright as any snowflake when he sees France waiting outside – or, to be more specific, the box in France’s hands.

“You brought food?” Sealand helps himself to the box – one quick grab and it’s _gone_ , Sealand pelting back along the hallway. “I’ll put this in the kitchen for you – ENGLAND, _DOOR.”_

“ _Indoor voice!”_ an exceedingly familiar voice reminds Sealand from upstairs, footsteps above.

France comes inside and wipes off the snow on his boots on the welcome mat. He’s taking off his bag and jacket when the stairs creak behind him, so he turns, offering a smile to a watching England on the bottom step. Like Sealand, England is dressed in a thick turtleneck against the cold, but its sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and England has dust on his hands and denim-clad knees.

France raises an eyebrow. “Have I disturbed you?”

“Just from dusting in the attic.” England waves the question off – and then notices the state of his hands, rubbing them off on his jeans. He finishes coming down the stairs, and France hangs up his coat. “What do you want here, anyway?”

France clasps his hands. “Ah, you see, I woke up this morning in my soft bed across the Channel, and as I looked out of my window I saw that the world was white and crisp and beautiful, and -”

“The _short version._ ”

France pouts. “One of these days I’m going to teach you how to have fun.”

“Punching you in the face is always fun,” England offers. “And take off your boots; you’re getting slush on my carpets.”

France _sighs,_ but leans against the nearby wall to obligingly remove his boots. “Snow is a very nostalgic thing, isn’t it? You must think so too -” England shrugs, glancing away, “ah- _ah,_ you don’t get to play coy when you’ve spent your morning holed up in whatever memories you keep in your dusty loft. You get lost so easily in your yesterdays; I saw the snow this morning and I thought _ah, who better than I to drag that dreadful little man out of them,_ and so -”

“So you decided to come here and be a pest.” England doesn’t seem impressed.

“Actually, I planned to take a romantic stroll with you through the snow, feed you some of my delicious tarte tatin and then whisk you off to bed, but –” France glances along the hall to the kitchen, where they can both here the scrape of a chair and the noise of shifting cutlery. “It appears you have company.”

“…And it appears my company has your tart,” England agrees, eying France’s empty hands and apologetic smile, before yelling back over his shoulder – “ _Sealand,_ no snacking before lunch!”

A whine. “But _England -”_

“No buts!” The sound of thwarted childhoods.

“No butts at all?” France inquires quietly, stepping up to slide his hands dangerously low down England’s back.

England rolls his eyes and shoves at him, right around the moment Sealand yells, _“Jerk!”_

 

 

 

 

In the afternoon, Sealand goes out to build a snowman in the back garden. France watches him idly from the kitchen window, listening to England clearing away the remains of their lunch (which France invited himself to make, wishing to spare _all_ their stomachs).

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose him out there?” England’s garden – at _this_ house, anyway – is vast and sprawling, and, if England himself is to be believed, really does have fairies living at the bottom of it.

“I was rather hoping for that, actually.” The plates clatter in the sink, abandoned with the air of the fed-up. “He’s taken it upon himself to be nothing but a pain today, so getting rid of him for the afternoon sounds like – you want more to eat?” France has his box open and ready for when England turns around, his apple tarte  tatin looking so terribly, temptingly _delicious_ within. France is a wonderful chef, even if he does say so himself. “ _Already_?”

“If you don’t want any, I suppose I could call Sealand back inside and we could finish it all in one go -”

England takes the tart. Deigns to eat it too, aggressively defending his plate of dessert a little later on when France finishes his own and leans in to try and steal some.

England pulls away his plate but leaves the rest of himself vulnerable – so France takes his cheek with one hand and kisses him swiftly, sweetly, taking the flecks of caramelised apple lingering on the corner of England’s lips. Halfway to love and halfway to the Devil; apples are given to both the evening and morning stars, and France is given, it seems, to a long life of living with the two in one, watching England, watching England watch him.

“Oi,” England says, starts off in that tone of his that means he doesn’t know whether to be truly annoyed or not yet. “You can’t just -”

France cuts him off, abandons his own fork. “If I promise not to steal your treat, may I do it again?”

England stares at him.

And then, slowly, puts down his plate.

 

 

 

 

_**I.** _

_\- I suppose I shall live forever too, then, so that there is always someone around to wring your silly little neck._


End file.
